Whistlin' Dixie in a Nor'easter (6 page)

“That’s neat,” I said, thinking that might be something I’d like the girls to take up.

“They went to a high school over on Stratton Mountain, about thirty minutes away, called the Stratton Mountain Ski School.”

“Do they get any studying in?” Baker chuckled a little when he asked.

“Oh, sure, but they ski every single day.”

“Do they accept girls?” Baker wanted to know.

“Of course, are you kidding? It’s coed. Several of the Stratton Mountain Ski School graduates have gone on to become members of the U.S. ski team.”

“I’ve heard the skiing in the Northeast is icy,” I heard myself saying. Baker jabbed my arm again.

“Well, that’s debatable. Folks out west don’t like to admit that Vermont has some pretty nice conditions here. In my opinion—and I don’t speak for everyone, mind you—skiing in Vermont is as good as any mountain out west.” He
sounded
convincing. But then again wasn’t that his MO?

“Have you ever seen a moose?” I bent down to look at the thicket of evergreens below us.

“Yuup, when you live here, you see them quite often. They’re all over the place.”

“Are they on
this
mountain?” I perked right up.

“Well, sure.”

“What about on the side of the road?”

“Sometimes, or they could be in a field—just keep your eyes peeled. You’ll see one.” (I didn’t find out until much later that really spotting a moose is about as likely as spotting a freckle on your own fanny.)

“What about tornadoes and earthquakes?” I asked.
There’s bound to be something wrong with Vermont
.

“Nuup, we don’t have to worry about earthquakes and tornadoes around here. The mountains protect us from tornadoes and, to my knowledge, there are no fault lines anywhere close.”

“Then what
is
the downside to living here?” I asked.
Somebody needs to ask this question
. “There must be something—a stinky paper mill perhaps, or contaminated rivers?” I knew Baker was about to kill me, but wasn’t it my job to play devil’s advocate?

“Oh no, my dear lady, not here. Vermont is protected. There’s a domineering group of environmentalists who practically control the legislation in this state.” Conveniently for him, the chairlift came full circle and into its base just as he finished his sentence. “Well, it’s about that time. Why don’t you guys hop in my car so we can all ride over together.”

Once we got to his Subaru station wagon, Ed invited Baker to join him up front. I slid into the backseat.
He’s no Southern gentleman
, I told myself.

It was a short ride to Willingham just down the mountain. When Ed took a sharp turn, a DVD came sliding out from underneath Baker’s seat and landed next to my foot. Three naked girls were on the cover wearing nothing but old-fashioned nurse caps. I thought about kicking
Naughty Nurses
back under the seat but decided to leave it out in plain view instead.

As we drove into town, we crossed a river with white water. Baker turned around and glanced back at me with a wink. Ed told him it was the Deer-field River and of course it had trout in it.

Straight up a hill, about a block from the river, Ed turned on his left blinker. “It’s the moment you’ve been waiting for.” He glanced over at Baker and then craned his neck back at me. Ed pulled in, crept down the driveway, and parked his car on the side of a white picket fence. Baker flung his door open and jumped out. I tiptoed out of my side. At last, the Vermont Haus Inn and I were face-to-face.

I recognized it immediately from the pictures. It looked as if it could have been a big farmhouse at one time. The not-so-fresh whitewash on the outside was still passable but the green paint on the shutters was peeling in a few places. A wonderful old slate roof of coral, blue, and light green made a basket-weave pattern that, when mixed with the afternoon sunlight, gave a warm, inviting feel to the place. Two dormer windows peeked from the
right side of the roof and a large front porch, perfect for rocking chairs, stretched all the way across the front of the house. To the left of the porch was a front door, which opened into a small enclosed area.

The flowers in front of the porch were stunning. Not at all like Southern gardens; there were many flowers I didn’t recognize. No azaleas or hydrangeas, gardenias or rhododendron. It resembled a European garden. I couldn’t help noticing that there were no shrubs, like boxwoods or hollies, up close to the house. (I found out later it’s because they’d never survive the winter due to the snow and ice that crashes down upon them from the roof. That should have been my first clue.)

We walked through an arbor with blue morning glories tangled up in the overhead lattice to reach the front door. I looked over at Baker and he was smiling, full of anticipation, unafraid and adventurous. Goose bumps started to crawl all over me and they weren’t the good kind. More like the kind you get from panic.

“Are we ready?” Ed beamed from ear to ear.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I muttered under my breath.

Ed opened the front door and then stepped aside to let Baker and me proceed in front of him. I put one foot into the foyer and drew straight back, like I had just dipped my toe into the waters off the coast of Iceland. God as my witness, if smells could kill, I would have keeled over and died right there on the spot. It smelled like a mélange of musty upholstered furniture, garlic, and propane gas, on top of a profusion of BO. I don’t know about anyone else, but I would
never
let my house smell like that.
Pee-you
, I thought,
haven’t they ever heard of potpourri
? I stepped inside anyway.

A beautiful, intricately carved staircase spilled into the foyer from the second story. But due to the horrendous stink, it was hard to take notice of its real beauty. Daddy would have never made it past the foyer. He would have turned around and left as soon as the first whiff of air breezed through his nostrils. Daddy liked to brag he had “the keenest olfact’ry senses known to man.” If there was one thing Daddy had no tolerance for, it was houseitosis.

I was trying my hardest to catch Baker’s eye. On purpose, he was not
looking anywhere near my direction. Totally grossed out, I decided to take the tour breathing through my mouth only.

“The parlor seems like a logical place to start,” Ed began, and walked over to the front window.

“Was this house ever a residence?” I asked, exerting every bit of effort I could muster to not turn around and run.

“Yuup, you’re absolutely correct. It was built in the late seventeen hundreds by a gentleman by the name of Harold O’Shaunessey. He built it for his young bride.”

“Is this where the guests hang out?” I glanced slowly around the room.

“Indeed it is.”

I couldn’t help but wonder where the guests were. Ed Baldwin told us we couldn’t stay at the Vermont Haus Inn because it was full. Full of what—
ghosts
?

The parlor was decorated with mismatched, worn-out furniture and lots of cluttery knickknacks. Probably every issue of
National Geographic
for the last twenty years lined the built-in bookshelves along with hundreds of paperback romance novels and wineglasses. There was a beautiful fireplace in the center of the room but the wide-board pine floors were badly worn. There were no rugs on the floors at all. The place was ragged and tattered.
How do people live like this?
I thought. I couldn’t imagine actually opening my doors to the public with this shabby décor.

After the parlor, Ed showed us the dining rooms—four small, intimate rooms with only four tables in each. All the tables had candles, carnations, and red linen tablecloths. I liked the screened-in porch the most, which was used for dining as well.

If I had to rate the inn at that point, I would have given it an eight on architecture, a two on décor, and a big fat zero on aroma. For Baker’s sake, I tried to picture my furniture and curtains, my paint colors, my wallpaper, and my uncluttery knickknacks in the Vermont Haus Inn. Even though I could almost see it, I still had my doubts if we’d ever be able to de-stink the place.

Next stop on the tour was the upstairs—to see the guest rooms. Nine of
them to be exact. But we saw them so quickly I didn’t have time to notice much. I did notice, however, that just like the downstairs, the upstairs would need a total overhaul. I’ll say it right now, I certainly wouldn’t have paid more than thirty dollars a night to sleep in one of those rooms. To me the Vermont Haus Inn resembled an old college dorm rather than a quaint country inn.

But there was a nice sitting room upstairs with a large fireplace and a few of the bedrooms had fireplaces. At least there was something to work with,
if
Baker ever talked me into moving.

The kitchen was next, a daunting sight when you aren’t used to the commercial kind. It was like walking into a chrome store. Big sinks and ovens, three refrigerators, a huge Hobart commercial dishwasher, and several large steel pots and pans hanging from a rack near the huge eight-burner gas stove. A gigantic pot rested on top of one of the eyes, near bubbling over. Ed said it was the chef’s famous stock—whatever that meant.

I was particularly,
mostly
, interested in finding the “superb owners’ quarters” Ed boasted about in his
North American Inns
magazine ad and I couldn’t rest until we moved in that direction.

At last we moseyed out to a dining area right outside the kitchen. Ed walked over to a door that had been nailed shut. “Actually this door leads into the apartment.” He pushed a dining table out of the way to get over to it. “But the owners prefer to keep it nailed shut to ensure their privacy. I’ve been telling the potential buyers that it could be reopened to have easier access from the inn. It’s just a matter of preference.”

“Can we see it now?” I asked.

Baker shot me a look. “Only if it’s convenient. Leelee’s just excited,” he said.

“You’re in luck, Leelee,” Ed said, in a rather annoying way. “It’s our next stop. Follow me outside, you guys.”

To get to the apartment, we had to exit via the screened porch into a lovely garden full of pink climbing roses, hollyhocks, lilies of various varieties, fresh herbs, and other perennials I didn’t recognize.

Fresh air at last.

On the way to the owners’ quarters, Ed explained it had originally been an old barn. It was common in New England, back in the 1700s and 1800s, to butt the barn to the house. That way people wouldn’t have to be exposed to the elements when they brought in their firewood or milked their cow.

The door to the apartment was left unlocked and Ed stepped back to let us walk in before him. Once again, the odor was the first thing that hit me, and sure enough I had to go back to breathing through my mouth. This smell was mustier than the smell in the inn, though, more like the inside of a cabin at summer camp. The BO was stronger, much to my dismay, but the garlic was not quite as pungent.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to see.

We entered the superb owners’ quarters into a small sitting room with walls painted a dark burnt orange, and that color led up the stairs. Just off the sitting room two doors were open wide and from where I was standing I could make out the size of each bedroom. I tried holding back my shock but couldn’t. My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. I tried to breathe but a sudden gasp sucked the air out of my lungs. When I poked my head into the first room, which had curtains for doors and hooks for clothes rods, the only furniture I saw was a pair of twin beds with one small end table in between.

“Excuse me, Ed. Is this the master?” I swallowed in an effort to hide the panic in my voice.

“Indeed. Actually they’re both masters. The owners are brother and sister and they each have their own.”

“And these are they?”

“Yes, ma’am. Nice, huh?”

No, they’re hideous. And I need a microscope to find them.

The walls of the bedrooms were papered with a 1960s floral covering to match the chocolate brown windows and doors.
I hate chocolate brown.
I could flat forget about ever fitting Great-grandmother’s bed in either of these two cubbyholes.

Ed zipped us through the bottom floor so fast and seemed to be engaging Baker in conversation so much that I got the feeling both of them were daring each other not to look at me.

When we got to the top floor, I was a tiny bit relieved. It was quaint, actually, with a nice size combination den and kitchen. A Franklin stove sat in the middle of the room, and that, I imagined, was a nice thing to have in the winter. The ceiling was vaulted and the enormous posts and beams of the original barn were exposed. The kitchen cabinets were painted black, though, which along with the burnt orange walls, and the drawn curtains, made me feel like I was at a Halloween party.

This room was overcrowded, too, with beds and other odd furniture. A lime green Naugahyde chair sat right next to a magenta flowered chair, which sat on top of a yellow shag rug. Ed went on and on about how lovely the place was and what mint condition it was in.
Maybe this is just one of the differences in Northern people and Southern people
, I couldn’t help but think.

When Ed went downstairs to use the restroom and Baker could no longer avoid me, he whispered in a low voice, “I know what you’re thinking.”

I cocked my head to the side and forced a phony smile.

“Come on, honey. Try and look beyond all this. Remember what our house looked like before we started the renovation? We can have this place looking like a million bucks.”

“Did you see those bedrooms? My college
dorm
room was bigger than that. And curtains for closet doors? Baker, you know I hate chocolate brown! It’s gonna all have to be painted before I even consider it.”

“Painting is easy.” Baker reached out and tried to grab my hand.

I walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain.

“Can’t you see
our
furniture in here?” he said. “The cabinets and the rest of the woodwork painted white? Take those curtains down and let the sunshine in. You’ll love it, I promise.”